The wind was taken out of me.
My mom is gone.
People tell me she’s in a better place. I know they mean well – I really do – but it is a truly terrible thing to hear. I still want her here with me. I still need her. And yes, I know that sounds selfish, but grief doesn’t care much for being reasonable.
Who will I go and visit on weekends now?
Who will watch Suits with me?
Who is going to force me to talk about my feelings now?
Who is going to push me to use my creative side?
Who is going to make me feel better when I am sad?
My mom had the most beautiful way with words. Her writing carried emotion in a way that felt alive. She could put feelings onto paper like it was second nature.
I still need my mom.
I am deeply thankful for the last moments I had with her. She was the strongest person I knew. I learned so much from her – about resilience, love, and showing up even when life hurts.
I promised myself that I would make it my life’s goal to become the best version of me. The best woman. One she could be proud of.
Naming the Loss
When my mom died, I didn’t only lose her.
I lost the version of myself that felt anchored.
The version that always had somewhere to go when life felt overwhelming.
The version that knew, without question, that there was someone who would listen – really listen – no matter what.
I became more independent overnight, but not in a healthy way.
I learned how to cope alone before I learned how to grieve.
And I didn’t realise it then, but something inside me quietly hardened – not out of bitterness, but out of survival.
The Internal Impact
At the time, I told myself I was strong. Functional. Capable.
I went to work. I performed. I succeeded.
I kept moving because stopping felt far too dangerous.
What I didn’t understand yet was that grief doesn’t disappear when you ignore it – it relocates.
It settles into your body.
Into your sleep.
Into your energy.
Into your ability to rest, to feel joy, to feel safe.
I didn’t connect the dots then, but my body had learned that the world could change in an instant – and it stayed on high alert long after the danger had passed.
What I Couldn’t See at the Time
I couldn’t see that I was living in constant fight-or-flight.
I couldn’t see that being “busy” had become my refuge.
I couldn’t see that productivity was replacing presence.
I thought grief was something you got over.
I didn’t yet understand that grief is something you carry, especially when it isn’t witnessed.
So, I carried it quietly – into my work, into my body, into my future – without realising the weight it was placing on my mind and nervous system.
The Shift
The shift didn’t happen all at once.
It started with awareness.
With language.
With moments of stillness that finally allowed my body to speak.
Looking back now, I can see that leaving my job was a nervous system intervention.
A pause my body had been begging for long before my mind caught up.
Grief didn’t break me.
But unprocessed grief shaped me in ways I didn’t understand until years later.
And understanding that has changed everything.
This eulogy was a promise I made in the rawest moment of my life.
I didn’t know then how I would become that woman.
I only knew that I wanted to honour her – and myself – by living fully.
What I’m learning now is that becoming isn’t about pushing harder.
It’s about listening deeper.
About safety.
About healing the places we were too busy surviving to notice.
This was the beginning – not of the loss – but of the awareness that would eventually lead me home to myself.
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